By Linda Leaming
Tucked away within the japanese finish of the Himalayas lies Bhutan: a tiny, landlocked kingdom bordering China, India, and Nepal. essentially the most foreign places on this planet, Bhutan is wealthy in typical good looks, unique landscapes, and old knowledge, the place everyone is really pleased with only a few fabric possessions and the govt embraces “Gross nationwide Happiness” rather than Gross nationwide Product.
As one of many few american citizens to have lived in Bhutan, Linda Leaming bargains an extraordinary glimpse on the peaceable mountain state such a lot of have purely dreamed of. For over ten years, Leaming has lived and taught within the small city of Thimphu, the place there are fewer than 100,000 humans and no site visitors lighting. “If enlightenment is feasible anywhere,” she writes, “I imagine it really is rather attainable here.” The Bhutanese manner of life—quieter, slower, and extra tranquil—can look formidable to such a lot Westerners, fed on with time, dates, velocity, and potency. In Bhutan, humans not often payment their email and take their time answering their phones. yet, as Leaming exhibits us, a bit patience—over a cup of hot tea and pleasant conversation—can support soothe the main distressed brain and soul.
In this humorous, magical memoir, Leaming takes us along with her on her travels via South Asia, sharing her reports as she learns the language, customs, and faith; folklore of a respected Tibetan holy guy who gave advantages to the folks by means of whacking them at the head with a massive wood phallus; her not likely romance with a Buddhist artist; and her discoveries in regards to the unforeseen route to happiness and unintentional enlightenment, the place real bliss is living. Married to Bhutan is a reminder that following our goals is the best way to be actually chuffed.
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Extra resources for Married to Bhutan: How One Woman Got Lost, Said "I Do," and Found Bliss
I had to go out there anyway, to meet my attorney. A. in the late afternoon. I drove very quietly on the freeway, gripping my normal instinct for bursts of acceleration and sudden lane changes – trying to remain inconspicuous – and when I got there I parked the Shark between two old Air Force buses in a “utility lot” about half a mile from the terminal. Very tall buses. Make it hard as possible for the fuckers. A little walking never hurt anybody. By the time I got to the terminal I was pouring sweat.
What the hell is wrong with you? ” After much difficulty, we got back to the room and tried to have a serious talk with Lucy. I felt like a Nazi, but it had to be done. She was not right for us – not in this fragile situation. It was bad enough if she were only what she appeared to be – a strange young girl in the throes of a bad psychotic episode – but what worried me far more than that was the likelyhood that she would probably be just sane enough, in a few hours, to work herself into a towering Jesus-based rage at the hazy recollection of being picked up and seduced in the Los Angeles International Airport by some kind of cruel Samoan who fed her liquor and LSD, then dragged her to a Vegas hotel room and savagely penetrated every orifice in her body with his throbbing, uncircumcised member.
He knew all along. It was He who sacked me in Baker. I had run far enough, so He nailed me… closing off all my escape routes, hassling me first with the CHP and then with this filthy phantom hitchhiker… plunging me into fear and confusion. Never cross the Great Magnet. I understood this now and with understanding came a sense of almost terminal relief. Yes, I would go back to Vegas. Slip the Kid and confound the CHP by moving East again, instead of West. This would be the shrewdest move of my life.